


Głębokie || Deep Ones

by Candiedmothman



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, In which Geralt and co gets hired to get rid of an elder god, Other, gives me POWER TO WRITE MY OC, im not sorry, this was a tumblr prompt that got out of hand tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26591386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candiedmothman/pseuds/Candiedmothman
Summary: A contract given by a distressed governor leads Geralt and the Druid Jean into peril below the streets of Novigrad and into the maw of madness.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), None
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. Mouth of Madness

The tolling of the church bells was genuinely ominous. An impending sense of dread dominating the grey morning fog, which blanketed Novigrad. Those silvery sounding clangs ringing out through the mist to call forward its faithful masses from the gloom. Pulling the traveling cloak tighter around her shoulders, if only to stave off the nerves rather than the general chill that harkened the coming of autumn, Jean flinches when Geralt's shoulder lightly brushes hers. Nerves had been high in the woman's chest as they neared the city, the last time she'd stepped foot in those walls being the night before her family died. Now with the cold solid stone rising around them, Jean couldn't help be reminded of a tomb.

This must have shown on her face from the flicker of a frown that graced the Witcher's mouth. He'd been summoned on a contract put forth by one of the wealthy governors that had come to occupy a mansion in the northern district of Novigrad. Since he'd taken up residence there, it's caused the man nothing but grief. Deaths in the family, along with some more insidious spectral activity that made even the most persistent of tenants shy away from even renting the place. Which only added to the misfortunes befalling an otherwise uninteresting and mundane man of wealth. With such wealth, he enlisted Geralt's help, and by some lucky stroke, Jean as well. Who had insisted she come along since the governor had mentioned something about black vines overtaking most of the house. 

"What plant has black vines?" Had been the first question Geralt had asked when done skimming the frantic letter that had been sent forward to Downwarren. The Witcher had to stop spending so much time in her little hut, now even people outside of the village were beginning to notice. Plucking the letter from his hands and chewing on the inside of her cheek as she read, Jean's mind crunched over all the various odd species that thrived in this environment. 

"Devil's bramble is the first that comes to mind, but it's more of a shrub than vines. Could also be just a mistaken color?" Placing the letter back down and folding arms across her chest, the Druid casts an uneasy glance out of the dewy glass in her kitchen to the misty bog. She hadn't been to Novigrad in nearly fifteen years. The harsh smell of a house fire coming back in a wave so sudden it took a considerable amount of will not to choke on the air stuck in her lungs. Hugging herself tighter, Jean forces the words out of her lips in an attempt to cast away unwanted memories. To drown the screams.

"You'll probably need an expert on plants and herbs," a glance is cut at the Witcher to gauge how the words are received. "I won't ask for any of your payment, I'm just genuinely curious now and could do with a bit of adventure away from the bog and corpses." Geralt grumbled a few words about how things were dangerous, and Jean's rebuttal of how she could handle a sword along with magic seemed to lessen the worries only marginally. Or at least enough that he put them to bed. 

Now walking among the cramped sewage reek which clung to the southern district like a diseased lover, Jean begins to miss her bog. Roaches hoof beats echo in the dull mist as they weave through cobblestone streets going north. A beggar approaches before seeing the Witcher and thinking better of his choices, slinking back into a darkened patch of fog that yawned into an alleyway. The struggling morning sun had yet to touch these streets, sleepy shop windows gazing out onto quiet abandoned boulevards. A liminal moment in time before the meager warmth of an autumn day shone through the slate clouds above. 

That invisible line between districts isn't so invisible in Novigrad. A stark change between cramped tenant buildings that had begun to go crooked like a thieves smile, to the gaudy colors in the markets almost hurt the Druid's eyes. Even at such an early hour, a merchant in puffy gold pants tried valiantly to hawk some bruised peaches to her, claiming they were the city's sweetest. More polite "no thank yous" than Jean figured were necessary, and he'd given up his venture only to flag down another tired traveler bustling away. They did not make it out of the markets without expending a small amount of coin, which Jean put out to receive a small set of glass bottles in return, which now clinked softly in her bag. Geralt eyed the merchant selling her the glass wear with a critical eye, waiting to see if he was going to swindle her or not. This intense cat-eyed stare is more than likely what got jean a reduced price just to make them go away.

"I think I have a new idea about what the vines are." The Druid pipped up as another jarring change in scenery happened from the markets to the northern district. Now polished iron gates bore their teeth at them from the mouths of massive walkways up to ostentatious villas. No longer is the lower districts' corpse stench lingering; instead, a delicate waft of mountain roses and lemon trees walk in step with the Witcher and the Druid. Jean felt dirty here like she shouldn't be permitted to touch anything for fear of sullying it beyond rescue. 

"There's a rare type of flower which only grows on the site of immeasurable evil. I've only ever read about it, though; the drawing seemed close enough to the description he gave." Rummaging around in the folds of her cloak, Jean produces a very worn and overly bookmarked tome. Roughly the size of her palm, the books brown and yellow pages had the look of something that had been steeped in bog water and perhaps blood at one point. Leafing through to the proper page, the pages crackle with age under the woman's touch. 

"Here, Dagon's breath. Black vines with leaves about the size of a supper plate, able to produce flowers but only on full moons. Dried flowers turned into a powder can produce some of the most potent madness-inducing potions known to the world. Since this is such a rare specimen, there are speculations that even the scent of the flower can cause severe hallucinations." Reading this passage aloud, the Druid could feel a cold hand drag down her spine. If this was what they were dealing with, then whatever cast the curse even to make it grow had to be obscenely powerful. 

The Dagon is old magic. Older than what most perceived as life it's self, coming from the chaos before time. From all that Jean could find in the books in her home, it was a god born of entropy and discord but required strict worshippers to ensure that it would have a proper host to inhabit when the void took back over. Mages and fanatics alike that dabbled in the Old Gods were ones that put their minds in the hands of babbling madness willingly, hoping to be rewarded with some form of forbidden insight to the world. The thought made the Druid shudder. She'd tasted the sharp edges of madness once before, those dark whispers in a language lost still snaked into the blackest of nightmares that she couldn't wake herself from. They'd always promised such alluringly unfathomable things to her.

It's lost in these troubling murky visions that cause the woman to bump into Geralt when he stops at one of the ornate gates. Placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her, the Witcher's disquiet shows fully. He'd had many half-hearted qualms about bringing her along on this, and now that she was becoming so distracted, it only furthered his worry about her being a liability.

"You should go wait back at the inn. Now that I have a better idea of what this plant is, it shouldn't be a problem." I don't want you to get hurt; goes unvoiced, but his cat-like eyes' narrowing conveys the sentiment. Jean's face flares pink around the ears at her embarrassment, but she doesn't allow the dialogue of the inn to go any further. Making a vague gesture at the nameplate affixed to the gate, the woman lets out an irritated breath, the frustrations more directed at herself. 

"We're already here; it wouldn't make sense just to send me away now. Plus, I don't remember which roads we took to get here through the fog. Come on, Geralt, just let me continue, and I'll keep my head on straight, okay? No more distractions." A half-hearted smile that she hopes will cement the words into place only has Geralt absently rolling his eyes. Producing the key that had been sent along with the letter they'd received, the gate is unlocked. A horse post just inside the iron portal is where they part with Roach, who busies themselves with munching on the fresh hay that had been left out. 

Path flanked on either side by overgrown flower beds containing every flavor of poisonous plant known to the region. Even a few that look notably exotic had a tight knot of anxiety forming in the woman's chest. A breeze sighing up the path causes the nefarious blooms and grasses to seethe in a green ocean around them, their ghostly voices curling in Jean's ears. Reaching out to place a holding hand on Geralt's arm, Jean freezes in her tracks when the house looms into view from the dismal fog, which had turned into a light misting rain.

When the governor had stated the vines were growing along the house, she had expected a few sparse fingers grasping greedily at the spaces between the bricks. Instead, what they were greeted with was a building that seemed to move with a life of its own. Thick coal-black leaves nearly the size of Geralt's head shiver in the breeze giving a sinister shivering quality to the house from foundation to rain gutters. Interspersed with wine-red flowers sporting elegantly curved petals and long golden yellow pistils that reminded Jean of a great blood-sucking insect searching for its next meal. 

Then the whispers.

"Geralt, we shouldn't go in there." We're the words Jean heard herself saying, startled by how her voice sounded so terrified. While the Druid can listen to most of the passive voices of the plant life around her, these held that same nebulous darkness that only spoke to her in deepest nightmares. They carried the same voice as the madness. Their saccharine-sweet smell only there to lure you in closer with beckoning leaves and candy red petals.

Before responding to such a statement, a loud voice calls to them excitedly from the house. A gaunt man in a midnight black traveling cloak hurries toward them, waving his arms and wearing an almost crazed smile that shows far too much of his gums, which are far too pale to be healthy. 

"Witcher! And... company. So good of you to finally arrive, and when I fear I am at my wits end!" The man nearly shouts at them, reaching out to vigorously shake Geralt's then Jean's hand with both of his clammy skeletal paws clasped around theirs. When his fingers leave the Witcher's, he notices fresh raw wounds on the man's forearms peeking out from his dark robes' confines. They looked almost like symbols carved into his skin, but such a quick glance hadn't been enough time. Deep-set eyes that once would have struck a woman dead with a glance now flit in their sockets nervously, the striking ocean blue ringed with bloodshot scleras and the deep shadows of exhaustion. The man looked to be hand in hand with death, yet the cold grip that clutches Jean's own spoke of fierce hidden strength that still dwelled like an angry spirit inside him. 

"You must come inside! He has told me so much about you. I am looking forward to speaking with you before we get to such dark and dismal affairs. Come come." Voice and grip offering no rebuttal, the governor loops his arm with Jean's, nearly dragging the woman toward the house of dark whispers. Following close behind, Geralt notices the low humming of his medallion as they approach the building. There was nothing good contained within, the corrupted magic oozing out and tainting the air around them.


	2. Locks and keys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What speaks to you from the darkness?

Once inside the cavernous walls of the manor, the persistent hum of Geralt's medallion changes pitch against his chest, and it has a rare reaction from The Witcher. It makes him slightly nervous. Their host still holds Jean with a vice-like grip against his side, strange bony fingers stroking her forearm. Watching this, Geralt wanted nothing more than to rip her away from that man and perhaps punch him for good measure. He can see the tension in her body; she'd said from the moment they walked up the front path that there was something off about this place. 

Shivering shadows are cast through the meager lines of sunlight, which weakly shine through the thickets of vegetation covering all the windows. Faint tapping noises against the glass sound vaguely like a hoard of spirits trying to pour into the skeleton of the home. It chills Jean more than the pressing cold, which filled up the space around them like a presence. It breathes with her as they walk, and she wants nothing more than to look over her shoulder to try and see if Geralt is still there. Of course, the Witcher is still there, where else would he go? Yet that suggestion of going to wait back at the inn now seemed like an unobtainable hope, snuffed out by these dark stone halls. Who's to say that he too hadn't gotten swallowed up by the great maw of darkness that leered at them from every crevasse?

Turning a corner, the smell strikes both of them like a slap in the face. Geralt swallowing thickly, and Jean's chest shuddering momentarily for breath. If her arm weren't so tightly grasped in the governer's grip, then she would have clapped her hands to her mouth and nose to stifle the gag. For now, all she could do is put on as brave a face as the man behind her and hope that their host didn't think she is rude. For the way his eyes stared unblinkingly forward as he leads them through these dark and shuddering halls, Jean had a feeling that slight discrepancies could hold serious consequences. 

A corpse. It reeked like a corpse had been left somewhere in these maze-like hallways and now festered behind a locked door. Perhaps the family's deaths that the letter had urgently spoken about were still left here, rotting for whatever beast roamed these halls. Or worse, left behind for the scraps picked off by the governor. Geralt clenches his molars together so hard his jaw creaks to try and focus on something other than that raw putrescence that forced its way into his lungs with every breath. Not even corpses in the battlefields and bogs smelled this bad. Then he noticed that the odor didn't seem to affect their host whatsoever. The man's vague smile still in place and those fingers clawing covetously against Jean's sleeve. He still hadn't blinked. The two chalk this up to the man possibly being used to his home's conditions at this point, maybe not even noticing the smell anymore. But that only raised more confusion about why he was subjecting himself to such abysmal circumstances willingly. With the amount that most political figures made in monthly allowances, he should be able to leave this place and take up residence at any inn or apartment in Novigrad at his leisure. 

"Manners! My goodness, I've seemed to have misplaced mine. As you may know from the letter, I am Consulate August Clark and this is my immaculate abode. Of course, you are Witcher Geralt and Alchemist Jean, who are here to assist me with a matter of most urgent importance indeed. A matter of darkest dreams and malevolent specters." As August speaks, Jean has a very distinct feeling that the words are not coming from the man who guides them. Instead, his emancipated body was being used as some brand of meat puppet for the amusement of something far more sinister. Able to sneak a glance over her shoulder at where Geralt walked behind them, Jean knits her eyebrows together in worry, her expression conveying the foreboding that she knew he felt as well. 

Startling when her attention turns back to their host, Jean finds those cold dead unblinking eyes boring into her from deep within August's sunken sockets. Thin skeletal fingers dig sharply into her arm as he leans in far too close, fetid breath wafting across his face as an insane little giggle bubbles up from the man's chest.

"Is that incorrect? Hm? Are you another set of imposters come here to my home only to bring pestilence and pain? There are no more nightmares you may give me specters I have already lived and endured them all at his behest. Now I only have the knowledge to give! This frail body grows weaker still as we dawdle here." Voice now high with madness as he babbles on Jean leans back away from the bruising grip trying to get free, before Geralt wraps a large hand around the governor's bicep and peels him off. 

Tittering and giggling to himself as he takes a step back, August seems to be consumed with fits of laughter as if what he'd just done is a particularly good joke. Geralt smoothly pushes Jean behind him and out of the line of immediate fire as he eyes the man before them, a hand hovering over the hilt of his blade as he carefully responds,

"We are as we say, but you better state your actual intentions, or else we're leaving." Voice, even the underlying threat is still there, no more funny business. Even as she peers around Geralt's shoulder, Jean knows that whatever this madman had in store, it would probably be well worth the almost five thousand crowns he was paying them. That was more than a dozen contracts combined, but now it's the questions of what cost. 

Witnessing a shudder go across August's face as if something is shifting uneasily beneath his skin, Geralt tries not to look disgusted. Features settling down into something akin to mild disappointment, the set in August's shoulders change. A sudden shift in personalities as whatever babbling creature that had possessed him a moment before dissipates. 

"I was aware that Witcher's were testy but still. Amusing that you still think that leaving is an option with such a large sum on the table Witcher Geralt. Now come, I wish to have tea and discuss before we delve into dark matters." Tone crisp now, the former hysteria has vanished, leaving behind a cold governor who turns on his heel and begins to walk briskly away. 

Placing a hand gently at the center of Geralt's back, Jean applies the smallest amount of pressure to get him to follow. Even feeling how nervous she was, he only hesitates for a heartbeat before following unless they would be left behind entirely in this dark labyrinth of hallways.

"There will be additional compensation for my behaviors. I realize now that I have not been the most gracious of hosts to you both, and for that, I sincerely apologize." August continues to speak, not even turning his head to look at the pair as they trail at a cautious distance. Staying behind Geralt, Jean can take in their surroundings without the clutching fingers of August prying at her arm like he was trying to peek back her skin.

Crypt-like coldness seeps into her bones, only exacerbated by the persistent whispers that still beckon her from outside the narrow windows. With so much plant life covering up every spare inch of space on the building, the interior is cast in an almost constant breathing darkness that's beaten back by weak candlelight from interspersed tables along the stone hall. Leering down at them from the walls, rows of massive canvases depicting tortured battle scenes, or the stern faces of what could only be August's relatives watch them pass. Jean could have sworn their heads turned to follow them down the hall. She didn't look at the paintings anymore

Turning left at a forked hallway, Jean had begun to lag behind the pair of men, who were forging through the darkness ahead. Glancing right at the fork, she spots a large iron door. It's studded surface like a slab of night cut into the silvery stone wall. 

"Come home." The voice, almost blending in with the rest of the whispers, which were white noise to the Druid at this point, slices through into her consciousness like a blade. Her mother's voice rooting the woman to the spot, she stares aghast into the murky shadows. It's just a trick of the mind, too much plant life around the Druid rises to justify it to herself even as feet haul her closer to the door. A low ringing in her ears blots out everything else except for the loud rush of her pulse, muffling the retreat of August and Geralt's footsteps as they continue. August back to prattling on bits of madness while the Witcher listens, trying to pick out significant bits that would make some sense to them.

"Come home." Again? Once is a coincidence, twice... Jean's fingers land on the ice-cold doorknob, and a shuffling of something immensely heavy slides across the other side of the door. 

"I can't." Responding in a whisper to the thing on the other side of the iron, Jean presses her cheek against the metal and feels it breathe. How many times had she told herself that there was no home to come back to? Only ashes and scorched land that now laid as a smudge next to that glassy black lake their house had crouched beside. The same one that her mother forbid her from going close to. She couldn't remember the explanations they'd given her as a child about the odd shadows that would bubble under the surface, or the hooded figures that gathered on the other shore and her father had to chase off. The same figures that were hiding in the back of the mob that came to-

"Come in." A clatter of metal and a dry sigh of musty mildewed air wafts across the Druid as the door swings silently inward. Before her, a long set of stairs descend into the void. Alabaster white stones, expertly carved going lower, lower, and lower still before disappearing. Calling the Druid down into the unfathomable depths with a voice so much like her mothers. Jean takes the first step and vanishes into the darkness.


End file.
